Pack
by Many Impossible Things
Summary: "These were the people who understood her, who loved her, who would let her grow and who would stay to the very last if they could, would never willingly desert her. They were her home. She was not going to let it be taken away. Not by a Frey. Not by her brother. Not by a war. Not by her duty as a damned lady."
1. Ransom

A/N: Hello there! So, to be honest this is complete wish-fulfillment on my part. I was watching the show the other day and realized I really needed an ending in my brain that wouldn't dropkick me in the chest. So, I made my own. It's short, but I figured, why not post. There's some swearing and such, so if that worries you, be warned. I didn't think it was overall bad enough to be an M. Also, there might be some out-of-characterness and there is definitely some messing about with time. But really, can anything but AU be considered happy in this fandom?

Anywho, welcome to my little slice of Westerosi happiness. Thanks so much for reading, review if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoy! :)

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><p>Grey eyes blazing, she turned back when she was halfway to her mother and brother during her ransoming. Not caring if they wouldn't take her seriously, if they saw her as a stupid, young, noble girl, she bit out a promise for every Brother without a Banner to hear, "If they kill him. If you sold him to his death, I will slit your throats. I will watch every last drop of blood leave your bodies and you will know that winter has come for you. No fire or god will save you from me."<p>

Leaving Dondarrion and Thoros silent behind her, she strode to her still waiting but decidedly quieter family members.

Sensing her mood, neither Robb nor Catelyn moved to touch the youngest female Stark as she climbed up onto the rider-less horse they'd brought with them. Nodding for one of his men to step forward with the gold, Robb could only watch as she wheeled her steed about and began to ride away.

He and his mother exchanged a worried glance before doing the same. From the back of his horse, he surveyed his little sister, marveling slightly in the fact that he had gotten both of them back in less than a week. Sansa had been brought back, escaping the Battle of Blackwater Bay months before with the Hound of all people. Their journey to reach the Northern army had been a long one. And Arya…well, there that was. He was about to give one of them away, but that they were back was the most important thought in his mind.

She was different, though. Arya had always been a headstrong child, doing what she wished when she wished it and with whomever she wished. When that involved her sneaking out to have weapons lessons or hiding her hair under a cap and wearing old clothes to spar and play with the peasant children, he'd rather admired it about her. He'd also always remembered a smile lurking beneath the surface, no matter if she was insulting you or threatening you.

That smile was gone. The teasing was gone. The little laugh that sprang up when she threatened harm upon anyone was decidedly gone.

He suddenly wondered what exactly it was his sister had seen. And who was this 'he' she was willing to kill for.

The girl of fourteen at the lead, he allowed his thoughts to overtake her for nearly half an hour into the ride before his mother closed the distance and finally greeted her youngest daughter. Even though she finally smiled, hugged her mother back and answered all manner of questions about her health, he could still see it. Murder and darkness remained in her eyes.

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><p>"I…I thought it would be different."<p>

Curled up in front of their tent's fire beneath a large blanket with her sister, Sansa glanced down at the brunette. Though Arya didn't look away from the flames, she knew what she meant. Letting out a sigh, she let her temple rest on the top of her sister's choppy hair, "So did I."

Arya had been returned to them three weeks prior and her restless spirit had failed to settle. Though, if Sansa was telling the truth, neither had her own. It didn't help that Robb had called the both of them into his royal tent that afternoon to sit before him and their mother and tell them that one of them was being given to a Frey. He claimed that he would give whichever one of them he chose at least a month to get used to the idea, but that in order to win the war and take back Winterfell, the alliance had to be consummated… literally.

Sansa was under the distinct impression that the only reason Robb had settled upon Arya was because of the murderous look on Sandor's face. It had been subtle—the Hound's feelings always were—but a wise man could tell when her protector was angry with him.

She wasn't sure which was more terrifying, angry Sandor or angry Arya.

Though they had never gotten along as children, the two sisters had become inseparable after Arya came back. She could only explain it by attributing their new bond to shared trauma, to hurts that ran deep but stayed invisible to all others that they both secretly harbored. They'd been there. They'd both seen it happen, the swing that ended their lives as they knew them. Where they had gone from there had differed, but their souls recognized each other as wounded and blackened and close to breaking.

That bond led them to sitting before the fire in the middle of the night, both already awoken by nightmares, both reaching for the two things that made them feel safe. That explained the dagger clutched in Arya's hand beneath the blanket and the Hound sitting across the room, unabashedly staring at the elder sister, having had his large arms wrapped about her moments before, whispering to his little bird whatever she needed to hear.

After Sansa had declared him the only guard she would tolerate and that _nothing_ Robb did could take him from her, others had stopped commenting on how he was always in the elder sister's company. The cruelty of Joffrey was well-known and none had yet had the courage to bring it up to her. If they were too afraid to ask, then she would not correct them that she kept Sandor around because she'd grown to love and trust him, not because she feared a faraway wretch of a king.

Arya hadn't taken well to his presence at first, but she'd accepted him after a few days for her sister's sake. Initially, she had drawn a sword on him, screaming to all in Robb's tent that he was on her list and she was going to kill him. Not a single soul had doubted her resolve.

Only Sansa stepping in front of him, holding out her hands in a placating manner, had given the younger girl pause. She'd only put down the sword when Sansa begged her to give him a chance, for whatever love she bore her to not take him away from her.

Robb's face pale, Catelyn's narrowed in worry, and nearly every other taken pause at the mouse of a maiden they had thought they knew before her departure for King's Landing. In that moment, the two sisters had seen it in one another: they were not the girls they had been before.

Murderous look remaining in her eyes, Arya had bit out, "Well, your brother is still a cunt and I plan to give him one."

Laughter rising up in his eyes as Lady Stark stepped forward to chastise her daughter for such language, Sandor had inclined his head, "I'll help you with that plan myself, runt, and make us square."

When he had come to silently hold Sansa that night after her trembling nightmares began, Arya had stopped questioning. The look of longing in her eyes, of the loss of someone terribly precious, had been all too clear on her face. Understanding came along with it and she'd promised to not breathe a word to anyone else, for it was not her truth to tell.

The two had come to an increasingly more amiable truce after that.

Whispering despite the silence that allowed her two companions to hear her, Sansa murmured, "I…I always thought that things would be right again after I got back. Once I got away from Joffrey and Cersei and the beatings and the fear, that everything would just go back to the way it was. Even without father, everything would just be fixed. But everything is different. _I'm_ different and Robb and mother don't want to see it. I…I thought they would understand, but…"

"Me, too. I never thought past getting back home. Everything was supposed to be wonderful." Arya was silent for a long while, before stating decisively, "I won't do it. I won't marry a Frey or any other lord Robb picks. I won't marry an anybody, not until I love them and I actually _want_ to be with them. I never was a lady; I'm not going to start now. I won't be sold for a fucking bridge."

His voice rough against the silence of the night, the Hound noted harshly as was his way, "Your kingly brother won't even get the fucking bridge. The Freys haven't forgotten what he did. They'll not take a princess and a lord when they were offered a princess and a _king_. I wouldn't be surprised if they just killed him and his wife, kept you to make little heirs they can call the King of the North, runt. He might believe he's a man of honor, but that doesn't mean anyone else even tries pretending."

Looking back at him, Sansa nodded, "I thought the same. I told Robb, but he won't see it. He says our uncle is still a good prize for them. That they're too afraid of our forces."

Both Arya and Sandor snorted unkindly. It was sometimes scary how alike their reactions to things had become. Sansa was continually trying to think of ways to bring the both of them out, to release what smiles and happiness they had. The effort kept her from burying her own too deep.

Bringing her hands up and running a finger along the blade of her dagger, Arya shook her head, "A man wronged doesn't care about prizes and forces. He only cares about revenge."

"Don't start being gender-specific about killing and revenge _now_, runt." Despite her best efforts, his dark humor had the girl laughing.

Looking at the two people who had come to mean the most to her in the entire world, Sansa paused. She had long ago stopped worrying about titles and comfort and the future. They were nice to think of, but they no more kept her alive than made her happy. Home had become a foreign thing to her too before she realized that it was not a place, but people. Home was her family.

Somewhere in the last two years since she had left Winterfell a fourteen-year-old girl waiting to flower so that she might literally wed her charming prince and sitting in a tent with the rain falling outside with her wild, wounded sister and the man with a scar taking up half his face but who still made her heart speed up and ache for him more acutely than any knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, this had become her family.

These were the people who understood her, who loved her, who would let her grow and who would stay to the very last if they could, would never willingly desert her. _They_ were home.

She was not going to let it be taken away. Not by a Frey. Not by her brother. Not by a war. Not by her duty as a fucking lady.

Her father had always lovingly referred to Arya as a she-wolf, but she was just as much a Stark as the rest of them. Arya was a she-wolf, but she was a den mother and she had found her pack. She'd never let them go.

"We'll leave."

The two turned to stare at her with questioning eyes, but she ignored any doubts.

"We'll leave. We'll warn Robb of what we fear will happen and if he still won't listen, we'll leave. He gave you a month, Arya. We can plan an escape in a month."

Leaning forward in his chair, sword across his knees, Sandor questioned gently, "And where would we go, little bird?

"Essos, Braavos, the Reach, Dorne, Seven hells over the Wall if we have to! Anywhere that we'll be safe. I don't care if I'm a lady or a forest wife. I don't care if I have a castle or a damned shack. I don't care if I have to share a room with my stupid little sister for the rest of my life, as long as I am somewhere with the both of you where I don't have to worry about being beaten or sold or used or murdered for my fucking womb!"

Her conviction rang in the air for a long moment until Arya actually smiled. Squeezing her sister's hand, it grew into a full-blown grin, "_You_ might not mind sharing a room with me forever, but I think _he_ might have some objections to that. Pretending I find sitting outside the tent incredibly interesting while the two of you hide in here at various times during the day will only work for so long."

Though a smile was clearly itching to peek through, the Hound pointed his sword at the younger girl, "You shut it, runt."

"Hey, you should be nice to me. My blessing is going to be the only one you get if you don't watch it."

His glare remained in place, but it softened as Sansa began to laugh. It was true enough, because she was going to marry him. Even if he kept repeatedly telling her that he wasn't good enough, that she deserved a lord and all that went along with it. How he only said such things after he'd spent his time kissing her breathless rather retracted from the effect of the words.

"Seven hells, between the two of you I'm going to lose my head…"

Smiling back over her shoulder at him, Arya shook her head, "Only if you anger Sansa. You're part of our pack now, pup. Get used to it."

He seemed singularly pleased at her statement, though he didn't say so aloud. "Some pack we are with a dog, wolf, and a bird. What else do we need?"

Though neither Sansa nor Sandor understood at that moment, Arya breathed out with no hesitation, "A bull. We need a bull."


	2. Forge

It had been three weeks, _another_ three long weeks since Arya had seen Gendry shoved bound into the back of a wagon. After over a year and a half of seeing him every single day, of sleeping beside him every night, of letting him chase the darkness away with how he always made her smile being the stupid bull he was, she felt like she'd lost an arm.

If anyone thought her new habit of spending time in the forges, sitting on a spare anvil or stool and listening to the song of the hammers hitting the steel odd, no one had said anything. After a few days, one of the smiths had taken pity on her forlorn, haunted expression and quietly offered to teach her should she wish. Her first smile in a long while had resulted and ever since she'd claimed her own hammer, smaller than the others so she might wield it but heavy enough to make knives and horseshoes.

When King Robb and Lady Stark were too busy with winning a war and planning her wedding, she made her way there. She'd shod five horses in the last two weeks. And while she hid it from her sister and the Hound, those were the only true times the darkness receded, when her list wasn't floating through the back of her mind, whispering of all the wrongs done to her, of all that had gone wrong.

She hadn't told anyone of Gendry, so no one could try and divert her for her own good. She wouldn't tell anyone. She wouldn't let them prove his fears right, that she'd have been kept from him if he'd come with her. The longer she sat without him, the more she knew she'd never let that happen.

How exactly could she let him go? She was only fourteen and she knew she wasn't _in_ love with him, no matter how that would have been the case in songs and all that shite, but she _did_ love him. He was her best friend. He was her family. He was _her_ bull.

No, she wasn't in love with him, but she would've liked to have had the years to see if she'd fall. With a marriage looming over her head, it had occurred to her one day while sitting out in the sunshine—leaving Sansa and the Hound to kiss and hold one another to their hearts' content—that she wouldn't mind if she fell in love with Gendry. She wouldn't mind if his was the face she woke up to every day, if the children she had would sort of look like him. She'd never say it aloud to him—at least not yet—but of all the men she had ever met, he was the only one she wouldn't mind belonging to. Probably because she knew that even if she did, he would remain her best friend. He'd keep being a stupid bull and refusing to let her walk all over him, refusing to let her slip into that dark pit she often tried to jump into. During that year and a half, it hadn't seemed like he minded her company either, her cold sort of fire giving him a reason to keep on going. They held each other up, pulled one another along, kept life something to keep living.

That seemed like a far better basis to start forever on than a title or money…or a fucking bridge.

He wasn't her brother, her feelings weren't quite that platonic, and he certainly wasn't her lover, but seven hells she missed him. Sansa helped, even the Hound in a strange way, but there was only one Gendry, _her_ Gendry.

After being forced to spend time with her brother the king and her mother, that Gendry was part of her family rather than them was ever clearer. They just didn't understand! And it broke her heart because _how_ could they not understand? They'd known and loved her for years. How could they just not know her anymore? Had she become so repulsive that they couldn't figure out how to love the new her?

Wasn't she still worthy of their love whether she was in breeches or a dress? Whether her hair was as long as Sansa's or short and manageable? Whether she was an innocent child who knew nothing of the world or a girl who'd learned all too well, who'd killed and felt relief at it?

Sansa was broken just like her. Sandor was fond of her because he loved Sansa and she supposed because dogs and wolves were just made to get along.

Gendry had never loved a different Arya. Just her. Only her.

Sewing on her lap untouched in her mother's tent in the middle of a war camp wearing a stupid dress, watching the Hound occasionally fail to hide his smirk at her discomfort, these were the thoughts on her mind. Every so often, Sansa would reach out to squeeze her hand encouragingly, making it look as if she were reaching for a different colored thread in her sister's lap.

Even if Sansa could fake her way through smiling at their mother's conversation, pretend that she gave a damn about which young lords had risen to honor during the war, who she might be given to, who might make her happy, Arya could see it slowly beginning to wear upon Sansa's nerves. Their mother had been the only one to speak in the past two hours.

How in the seven hells Sandor could stand it, Arya had no idea. Staring at her sister for hours couldn't be _that_ diverting.

They were thankfully interrupted by a courier coming through the tent flaps, the Hound's sword blocking him from coming any closer. Glaring at the enormous man for a split second, Lady Catelyn rose, "What message do you have for me?"

The man looked uncomfortable. "Pardon me, my lady, but it's not for you. We…We received a raven for L-Lady Arya."

Stepping out of the Hound's reach even when he lowered his sword, he hesitantly came forward, bowing to the teenager. He looked ready to speak but she interrupted him, "You call me 'my lady' and I will kick you in a very unpleasant place."

A hint of amusement escaped onto his features, "Of course. It only arrived moments ago. There was no sigil."

"Thank you."

The parchment in her hands, the man quickly left, trusting her to come to the raven keepers should she need to send a reply. Frowning at it, inspecting it for any further clues about who had sent it before opening it, she ignored her mother's worried questions. All that she found was her own name, misspelled and in rudimentary handwriting, but her name nonetheless. Shrugging, she peeled back the wax.

Not looking up, she deftly spun before her mother could take it from her.

"Arya! Give it here! I am your mother!"

Grey eyes narrowing, she glanced up, "It isn't addressed to my mother. It's addressed to me."

Beginning to pace about the room in order to make it harder for her mother to catch her, she unrolled it and began to quickly read.

_Aria Stark, I was asked to write this on behalf of your stupid bull. It is currently in a rowboat, leaving its pen. It will find its way back because it promised. It misses its lady and begs her not to go on any murderous rampages. I do not understand most of this, but I suggest you begin searching at where it began for the bull. It will make for somewhere warm, where it is most comfortable. It is most determined, this bull of yours._

A shriek of pure joy ripped from her throat as she read it a second and then a third time.

There was no signature, but she had trusted whoever wrote this since the first sentence. No one else would have known any of those things except Gendry. No one else would have known. It meant that he'd gotten away from the red woman. It meant he was alive and at least somewhat safe. She hadn't the faintest idea if Gendry could even swim, but it didn't matter. He was alive and she was going to find him!

She knew exactly where they were going when they left. They were going to King's Landing and she was going to check every single damn forge between here and there.

Crumpling up the piece of paper and throwing it in the fire before her mother could take it, she couldn't keep the enormous grin off of her face.

Whether he wanted her or not, no matter what he'd told her, how much he'd convinced himself that he couldn't be a part of her pack, he already was. She might only ever be just his lady, but he was her _family_!

It suddenly felt like the arm she has lost was that much closer.

Grabbing her shoulder and spinning her around, Catelyn demanded, "Arya Stark, what in the name of the seven hells was that?!"

Her grin didn't falter, "Word of my bull. I thought I'd lost it."

Lady Stark was clearly confused, "What on earth are you talking about? What do you mean you have a bull?"

"I was gone for two years, mother. I acquired a bull. You shouldn't be so surprised." Her grin was at once joyous and cryptic, "Sansa brought back a Hound. Why can I not have a bull?"

Without another word, she wrenched her forearms harshly from her mother's grasp and left, taking the long dagger Sandor always gave to her when she left his sight.

She was getting her bull back.

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><p>Talking to Robb had not gone well. Even between the two of them together, Sansa and Arya couldn't make him see sense. No matter their protests, he refused to acknowledge that the Freys would rather kill him than take a lesser offer. Despite knowing her all the years of her life, he also refused to accept that Arya simply wouldn't be married, not like this.<p>

"Of course you'll get married, Arya. You are a lady and this is what ladies do! You've always known this! Nothing has changed."

Screaming at a volume that could probably be heard across the entire camp, the younger sister would have flown at his face if Sandor hadn't wrapped a calming but immovable arm about her waist, "EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED!"

Tears welling in her blazing, shrieking eyes, she'd torn her dagger from the Hound's belt and flown out of the tent. The smiths wouldn't be working this late at night, but the fires would still be warm and there would be her hammer there to pound against the anvil. She wasn't exactly proficient at anything but daggers and horseshoes, but the sound helped calm her demons. It reminded her of him, how for as stubborn and bullheaded as he was, he was also steady and solid and could weather whatever fire was coming out of her. He was used to flames. Tonight it would quiet the voice screaming to pound in her brother's stupid head.

Sansa and the Hound would know where to find her. She'd told them as they made their plans. Though it wasn't the safest course, they had both readily agreed. They would help her get her bull back.

Sighing after her, Sansa looked to a positively scandalized Robb, watching as confusion and not a bit of understanding washed over his face.

"I-I don't understand. I know she's always been independent, but she's always known this is how things would go. _You_ accepted it. Nothing is different."

Face hardening along with her voice, she asked quietly, "Robb, where were you when father died?"

He looked stricken at the question. "What?"

She said it more slowly. "Where were you when father died? Where were you when Payne put Ice to the back of his neck and swung?" When he continued to not answer, she screamed, "Where were you?!"

"H-Home. I was at home." He didn't think Sansa had ever shouted at him in his life when it wasn't in jest. If he didn't know better, he'd say that her body was so tense because she was readying herself to spring at him. Thankfully, he was too taken aback by her response to notice the no longer subtle emotions on the Hound's face.

"Exactly," she bit out, tossing her long braid over her shoulder angrily. "You were at home with Bran and Rickon and everything that you had grown up with, in the place that you felt the safest, the most secure, the most like yourself. We _weren't_. I was standing up on that stage. I was closer to father than I am to you now. I _heard_ the sword hit, his neck break, his skin separate beneath the blade. And Arya, she'd been living on the streets for days, eating pigeons and stealing food from vendors and she had to stand out there in the crowd, helpless as hundreds of people cheered for his death. And then she was thrown into a group headed for the Night's Watch, forced to lie and fear being discovered every single day. Have you ever had to lie about yourself to save your own life, Robb?"

Staring him down, she continued, "Have you ever been scared for your life without a sword in your hand? Do you even know what it feels like to be helpless?"

He didn't to answer her. She knew. A big strong man with a title and a castle and a father and army to protect him, Robb had _never_ been through what they had been.

"Arya won't let her body, children, and soul be sold for a bridge, Robb. She's been through far much too keep herself alive to just let herself be traded away by her own brother. She won't be going to that wedding, neither will I, and neither should you. We know what it is to keep ourselves alive. You should learn to do the same. Good night, brother."

Following her out of the king's tent without an acknowledgement to the stunned man, Sandor came up beside her as she walked. He had never seen his little bird do such chirping, especially before her brother. She had made her choice and remaining an obedient Stark of Winterfell was not it. He wasn't sure he had ever wanted her as much as in that moment.

Burying that feeling—he was twenty years her senior, scarred beyond any hope of being handsome, of a lower house, a killer: he could wait until they were at least properly married—he said in a low voice as they walked, "Tonight?"

Subtly reaching out her hand, hiding it behind her long sleeves, she touched her fingers to his thigh in a silent gesture for herself to know he was there, right beside her as always. She then nodded, "I think so. That won't have changed his mind. He'll give the both of us a wide berth, perhaps send mother around lunch tomorrow to break the news more softly, but nothing has changed. Robb is quick to apologize when he admits he's wrong. He wouldn't have let me leave the tent if he truly believed me."

"Alright, little bird. I'll get the horses and the runt, then come back to get you. It'll look odd if you walk about without me at this hour."

"And I'll get the supplies." There were at the door to her tent and he looked ready to turn and go, do his part as he'd said, when she grabbed his shirtsleeve. Though she wasn't strong enough to force him to, he followed her without complaint, always slightly taken aback when she freely touched him, waiting for her to change her mind and become disgusted.

As soon as the fabric has slid down and obscured them, she reached up on her toes and forcefully seized his collar. Not giving him the chance to protest, she brought his lips down onto hers, keeping him against her until one of his hands finally came up to hold her waist. Easily lifting her, he brought her through the air until her face was level with his own.

For a few long, glorious breaths, he kissed her as a man properly in love should. Long ago, when they had first somehow breached this topic of the two of them, he'd tried to be more circumspect, more like the knights in bright armor she'd probably always dreamed of. Her fingers clutching at the hair hanging down the back of his neck and her tongue forcing its way past his lips, she'd put a quick stop to that. She wanted him and all of him and she saw no reason to play roles that no one but the two of them would see anyway.

Seven hells, she'd come so far from the petrified little bird hiding from Joffrey's wrath.

Pulling away first—as it always seemed he was—he smiled the small little smile he'd come to only give to either her or the runt, "I'll be back soon, little bird."

Smiling back, she whispered as he set her down, "While Arya's finding her bull, we're going to be kidnapping a septon and he's going to marry us whether he likes it or not."

"We'll find a drunk one. That'll make things easy enough."

Laughing lightly, she nodded before finally releasing him, immediately turning to do her part.

Within the hour, Robb Stark's Army of the North was minus one bodyguard, three horses, two princesses, and a small smith's hammer, the latter tied onto Arya's belt. The Hound such an able, devoted, and downright terrifying bodyguard, no one noticed their absence until after midday and by that time, they were headed south.


	3. Bull

"No, he would've come this way. He wouldn't have taken the Kingsroad again. He wouldn't risk being caught in Harrenhal."

Inclining his head, Sandor shrugged, "If you're sure, runt. We're just going to have to be careful from here on out. Once we cross that river, we're in Lannister lands. Your faces they might not know, but mine they will."

"I know. I…I've got a good feeling about this one, though. Now get to it so I can search and you two can do whatever it is that you do in your locked room." At his hesitation, Arya prodded while pulling her growing hair back, "Come on. Sansa did it last time. It's your turn."

"No matter how annoying you are, runt, I really don't like doing this."

She grinned obnoxiously, "Aww, I knew that you really did care, good-brother. Now come on, if they're looking at my black eye they don't see my face. Swing."

Though it was a less than pleasant portion of her disguise to create, Arya had learned that if she sported an enormous bruise, the smiths she spoke to were far less likely to get a good look at her face or her increasingly feminine proportions. It was bad enough that she had to bind her chest, but her hips were doing irritating things. Another year or two and she was going to look like Sansa, all curvy and obviously a girl.

She had better find Gendry before that happened.

Bracing herself, she had her eyes closed and was thinking positive thoughts about her bull when Sandor's fist connected with her skin. While she'd never tell her sister so, she far preferred it when he did it. It only took one punch to get a bruise starting. Sansa took a couple.

They were outside the town of Pinkmaiden. Though not as large as Riverrun and certainly smaller than King's Landing, it was large enough that three travelers weren't looked at a second time, even if they kept their hoods up and wore swords. At around midmorning on a cloudy, rainy market day, they were even more invisible.

They'd done this many times before given they were most often going from town to town, only roughing it when necessary or during the short detour they'd taken that had left the Mountain dead at the bottom of a ravine.

Having been married since the first week of their two month journey, Sandor and Sansa went to the inn with the best access to the gates in case they needed to leave quickly. Often claiming to usually large-busted women who took room fees that they were newlyweds, Sansa slipped her hood off, a smile on, and ensured that no one bothered them for however long they stayed, usually long enough for Arya to check all the forges in town and to get a decent night of sleep. It was quite useful in getting them a discount, also.

Leaving them at the inn they chose, Arya had to smile as she made her way toward the nearest sound of hammers on anvils. If Sansa wasn't with child within six months, then they obviously didn't know what they were doing. The Hound's incredibly improved mood almost always said otherwise.

Two daggers in her boots, the long one Sandor had always given her on her hip inside her trousers, and her stolen hammer hanging from the pack on her back, she approached the first smith's shop. With her shirt a size or two too large and her chest bound, she could still pass for a boy, her hair pulled back into a small tail in the center of her head as some men wore it when they had to keep it out of the way.

She had yet to be discovered when she went up to the smiths, asking for just a job for a day as a wandering apprentice, her last master having taken too heavily to the ale. Her face wasn't the worst of it. Most initially scoffed at her size, but she always offered to run water, work bellows, and fetch tools. If they gave her the chance, she had a knack for horseshoes and daggers.

The first smith turned her away, explaining that he didn't need any further help for the day than his apprentice, his own son with bright red hair. A seemingly friendly man, he pointed her in a direction across the city, "There's another here in town. Old Matthias has a temporary apprentice, great big lad, makes a hell of a sword, but the master's gotten lazy in his old age. He'll welcome an extra helper for the day. The other lad's like you, moving about, needing some coin to keep going. He's a good one, might split today's wage with you for the help."

Hope growing, she left the man with a smile. She wasn't sure how, but she knew. Inside the next forge she was going to find a sweaty, shirtless, happy Gendry who would come away with her. She'd have her bull back and her pack would be complete. She wouldn't even let herself worry about him not wanting her back. Her heart couldn't deal with the thought. She just…couldn't.

The trek across town was quick enough, people out despite the rising wind and threat of rain. The song of a hammer on an anvil soon reached her ears and she quickened her pace.

Much as the other smith had predicted, a big, white-haired man with a smith's apron on was resting on a bench in front of the forge, the doors opening the wrong way for her to be able to get a peek inside. His feet up and his eyes closed, she was hesitant to disturb him at first, but one of his eyes snapped open quickly enough. He immediately reminded her of Sir Rodrick from back in Winterfell.

Surveying her up and down, he caught sight of her hammer, "You looking for some daily work, lad?"

She nodded quickly, "Yes, please. I know I don't look like much, but I'll do whatever running and cleaning you need."

"Your old master give you that?" He nodded toward her black eye and she nodded. "Bah, never did see the point in beating the one doing half your work for you, especially now when my bones hadn't let me do any of it. Can you make anything? You're right. You look pretty small."

"I'm good with horseshoes, not bad at daggers either, the little kind that ladies like to hide."

"Not sure I've got a use for those, but I'm always selling horseshoes. If my current lad hasn't used up all my steel, we'll set you to work on them. Here, get that shirt off. Let me see those muscles of yours. Sometimes it's not about how big, but how strong."

For a split second, Arya froze. None of them had ever asked her to take off her shirt before, even the ones who had hired her for a day. Knowing that hesitation would cause questions, she slipped off her pack and reached down to pull her tunic over her head. She had a second one with no sleeves on underneath to help with the growing cold, and she prayed it would be enough to hide her figure. She was never going to be a large-chested woman, but there was enough there to worry about.

Matthias didn't seem particularly worried about her chest, however, merely reaching forward to feel her shoulders, poking her stomach after a moment. Finding them both lean but strong, he nodded, "Aye, you've got some good work in you. Let's get you to it, lad."

Hurriedly she pulled her shirt back on before following him. The steady rhythm of a hammer was still coming from inside the forge as the old man led her around back to the large open door. "So, what's your name, lad? I know you probably won't be staying, but I hate working with a soul whose name I don't know."

Smiling slightly, she replied clearly, "Arry. Arry Waters."

The song of the hammer faltered as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

Raising an eyebrow, the old man nodded, "Never heard him do that before. Usually the lad's as steady as a heartbeat. Ah well, it looks like I'm playing host to two Crownlands bastards. Can't say I mind as long as you do your work."

Heart beginning to beat its infant wings with a growing hope, she followed him into the hot and dark but for the roaring glow of the fires interior. And standing there, hammer in his hand and just as glorious and stupid as always, was her bull. He had facial hair for the first time, a ghost of a mustache and beard around his mouth along with stubble along his cheeks, but his eyes were the same, his hair still black and messy, his frame still solid, and that idiot expression still on his face.

It took everything within her to keep from sprinting to him, throwing her arms around his neck, and hauling herself up into his arms. She didn't care if he was sweaty or if he stunk or if he didn't want to hug her. As soon as the old man left, she was going to glue herself to Gendry's chest for a good five minutes.

For a long moment, his large blue eyes just stared at her.

Frowning, Matthias queried, "You alright, lad? I've found you a helper for the day. This is Arry, he's a brother of yours as I see it."

Finally finding his wits, Gendry smiled—that gorgeous, glowing, liberating smile she'd missed so much—and nodded, "I always did like the idea of having a few brothers, wouldn't mind a sister or two, either."

Arya was incredibly glad that the situation called for it, because an enormous grin spread across her face before she could stop it.

"Aye, well you've got one for today at least. Have him fetch anything you need. When you don't have anything for him to do, set him to making horseshoes; apparently they're a specialty of his," the smith poked her with a good-natured elbow and a smile. "Well, I've got a date with the stables, there's six horses the bastard wants reshod and I'll be damned if there will ever be a farrier in this town. Make sure you've got some new shoes for me when I get back, Arry."

"Yes, sir."

"Good lad. You two have any problems you sort them out yourselves. I'll be back later."

Gathering a few things and pulling the door halfway closed, the old man left with some half-hearted grumblings.

The stillness of the room lasted for all of ten seconds before Arya had dropped all her things to the ground and run to him. Leaping into the air, she had her arms around his neck and her legs about his waist before he could so much as move to catch her. Something that felt suspiciously like tears began to escape along with her laughter.

Still a bit shocked, it took Gendry a moment to wrap his arms around her, too.

Not quite believing she was real, he brought his hands up and gently pulled her face out of his neck, studying her dirty, bruised features.

"Hi, stupid."

If he hadn't been sure before, he was then, laughing right along with her. Spinning a few times until she was giggling with happiness, he questioned breathlessly, "How-How are you here? I thought you were going home. Last I heard you were supposed to be marrying a Frey or something."

Letting out an irritated breath, she rolled her eyes, "Ugh, all of that shite. It was ridiculous. They wanted to sell me for a fucking bridge, so I left."

Amusement mixed with disbelief on his features, he nodded as he leaned back against the anvil, not yet ready to let her go and sensing that she wasn't ready to let him go either. "You just left?"

"I warned them."

"How long ago was this?"

No longer having to hold herself to him since his arms had come up to easily hold her, she rested her elbows on his shoulders and put her chin in her hands. Figuring back the weeks, she replied, "About two months. We've been looking for you ever since."

"We?"

"My sister and her husband, the Hound." Seeing his recognition of the name, she added, "I've taken him off my list. He makes Sansa happy and he's not so bad when Joffrey isn't ordering him to kill everyone in sight."

"You…" He looked embarrassed suddenly. "You've been looking for me for two months? Why?"

She suddenly felt less certain about coming to find him. What if he'd gotten used to being without her, didn't want her anymore either.

Easily reading those fears on her face, he tightened his hold before she could scramble back down to the ground, "No. No! Arya, I'm not upset that you found me. I promise. I've been making my way North to find you ever since I got away from Dragonstone. I just…Before the red woman came and took me, I was going to leave you. I was going to stay with the Brothers. And I said all those things. I just…I didn't think you'd _want_ to find me again."

For a long moment she was silent, before she lovingly smacked the side of his head and whispered with a smile, "Stupid bull, you're my family. Even…Even if I was only ever going to be 'milady' to you, you were already my family. You…You keep the dark away, keep my list away. I couldn't just let them take you and not know what happened. I love you, Gendry. Stupid idiot."

Laughing again, he pressed a long kiss to her forehead, "You're the only girl I know, let alone love, who shows affection with insults, milady."

"Good, don't go looking for another. I like feeling special."

Snorting, he rolled his eyes as he set finally set her down, feeling strangely cold despite being right next to the fire. Resituating her hair that had fallen out of its tie, she watched him as he studied her again. "What happened to your eye?"

"Oh, Sandor punched me. I make either him or Sansa do it every time we stop by a town and I search for the smith. It makes people look at the bruise instead of my face. It's worked so far."

He knew her far too well to object to the sanity of her having her companions punch her in the face for a disguise, but he did roll his eyes. Picking up his hammer and grabbing the sword he'd been working on, he asked while getting back to work before someone noticed the elongated silence, "So, what's the plan?"

He watched with surprised eyes as she moved about the forge with clear ease, grabbing his dousing bucket to refill it given much of it had evaporated off in the form of steam. "Well, first we're going to finish working for today and I'm going to make some horseshoes. Then, we're going to find somewhere to sleep tonight, because staying with my sister and Sandor always gets awkward. Tomorrow, if you want to, you can come with us. We're going to head south down into the Reach or maybe Dorne. Sansa and I took some money when we left and the Hound has a lot from winning tournaments and whatnot. We're going to find somewhere safe and we're going to stay."

There was clear hesitation in her eyes when she looked back at him over the swinging of his hammer, the muscles all the way from his wrist to his hips rippling and moving with the practiced effort. Before she could worry herself into a panic, he smiled, "Safe sounds like a nice change."

If there hadn't had a red hot piece of steel between them, he knew she would've leaped at him again.

Instead, she settled for grinning widely before actually going to fetch his water.

"So," he asked when she came back in, "exactly how many horseshoes did you promise to Mat? I assume I'm going to have to make them before he comes back."

Grey eyes narrowed, she glared at him in a way that never failed to make him grin. "I didn't give him a number and it doesn't matter anyway. I'm perfectly capable of making them myself, stupid bull."

"Oh, aye?"

Peeling off her shirt again, she tossed it onto her pack before grabbing her own hammer, "Aye. I'm good at horseshoes."

Slightly disbelieving smile on his face, he let her continue with what he assumed was a charade. As far as he knew, his Arya had never picked up a smith's hammer in her life, let alone crafted something with it. The expression melted away as she took up a smaller chunk of steel in a pair of tongs and deftly if a bit hesitantly put the metal into the flames, clearly knowing what she was doing.

Shy smile creeping up before she started the first round of hammering, she answered his unasked question, "I was in Robb's war camp outside the Twins for six weeks. Nobody but Sansa even looked at me the same way anymore, without this disappointment on their faces that I'd changed, that I wasn't some little girl they could still groom and lead about by the hand. The nightmares and the dark came back. The forges were warm and…the sound reminded me of you. I missed you."

Knowing that confession cost her some of her pride, he smiled at her over his own work, "I missed you, too, Arya."

* * *

><p>"Here, come on. Mat gave me a cot to sleep on for as long as I was here. You can have it."<p>

Arya rolled her eyes that night after they'd finished their work and eaten their supper, "I'm not going to take you bed, stupid boy. It's yours." Seeing his mouth open to object, she raised a hand and glared, "Don't you dare say it! I will hit you with my hammer if you say it right now."

Laughing, he held his hands up in surrender. "Alright, fine. You can have the floor… m'lady."

He was expecting the harsh kick to his shin and it made him laugh all the more. He was hardly breathing by the time she jumped onto his back, attempting to tackle him to the ground.

Until she was right back beside him, he hadn't realized how much he'd missed her. He'd known, of course. There'd been this ache there. They'd been side by side for over a year. She'd trusted him more than anyone else in the whole damned world, more than she even trusted herself. She hid it well behind her independence and irascible demeanor, but she was warm and sweet and loved love. Even if she didn't let in many, she wanted a pack, people to love and love her back.

After everything he'd said, flat out rejecting her offers to come back with her, he'd thought that the trust she had in him would be broken. He'd sat there and stewed about it in the dungeon with little else to think on. He'd worried about it during all his sleepless nights in which he felt cold without a little body a few inches from his. And, for all that she gave him the credit for making her smile, he hadn't laughed that much since they'd parted.

Seven hells, he'd missed having her around.

Shifting her around so she was up and over his shoulder, her laughing face coming to press against his side as she held onto his waist, he flopped her down onto his cot. Sitting down next to her and leaning his back against the wall, he took his large arm and pulled her to him.

Though they sat in silence that was only broken by the shifting logs and embers in the fire, neither minded nor moved to separate. With the way her arms had tightened around his ribcage, Gendry wasn't sure she'd let him out of her sight for longer than it took him to take a piss ever again.

She'd fallen asleep without loosening her arms when he ran a hand down his face with a yawn. Unclasping her hands with some difficulty, he wrapped an arm around her chest and laid the two of them down. It wasn't quite the leaves and mud of a forest floor, but it was comfortingly similar…even if she stank more than he remembered having worked all day.

Not opening her eyes, she wrapped her top arm around his waist, reclaiming her hold. Again answering his question before he asked it, she whispered, "I have to make sure you're real. You're not this warm when I dream I find you."


	4. Fire

_Three Years Later_

Groaning slightly, Gendry rolled over on his bed to escape the rays of sunlight coming through the window.

He'd long ago learned to sleep through the babies' cries in the night, even Shaggydog howling at the moon, but he hadn't learned to snuff out the sun. Just lying there, he took a moment to listen to the morning sounds of his home.

The creaking floorboards down the hall showed that Sansa was awake, likely sweeping around her kitchen with little Jon in her arms and her two other children playing with Sandor. The enormous man, who was admittedly still terrifyingly intimidating but had softened after a few years of the woman's love, could be heard sharpening his sword before he left for the day, going to his job of being Honeyholt's wall captain. Most of his time was spent training recruits for the hold's militia and guard, but technically his task was to ensure the wall's defenses were always secure. House Beesbury had recognized him for who he was—his face was rather difficult to hide—but had asked no questions, opting to hire him immediately instead of worrying about who his pretty wife and his family might be. He'd ask they allow him to take a new name; they'd given him a raise if he promised never to go back to the Lannisters.

By the time the four of them had finally reached the hold far south in the Reach, King Joffrey had been poisoned and the war had been slowed by the oncoming winter. Robb Stark had continuously sent men out to find his lost sisters for an entire year, but after his wife had borne him a son, he'd let them have their freedom. At the beginning there, he'd been too busy trying to win a battle against the insulted Freys to put out any real effort, and by the time the river crossing had been taken they were to the Red Mountains.

In the nearly two years they had resided in Honeyholt, no one had bothered them, too far out of the reach of those who'd been searching to have any problems. Instead, with two smiths in their pack, they'd bought an old blacksmith's forge. His sons having left to work with the armies, his daughters married, his wife newly dead, and no apprentice, the man wanted nothing more than to get rid of the reminder of what he'd had. Conveniently, his good-brother had apparently been a carpenter, because what had started as a forge with two rooms had grown to one with six plus a main one.

It made sharing with Sansa—who'd chosen to be called Wren for the sake of safety—and Sandor's growing family that much easier.

The smith had moved in with one of his daughters and they had been living there ever since, becoming known as the best forge in the middling sized town. It had become well-known that not a soul could forge something better than Gendry and the girl who worked with him, Nymeria Snow, was the finest farrier a horseman could ask for. She has as much of a knack with the horses as she did the metal.

Speaking of Arya—she'd taken the name Nymeria, though everyone called her Ria except him—he could hear her doing her drills in the courtyard where their well sat. The stray she'd taken in and named Shaggydog was likely right beside her. Though she wielded a hammer more often than a sword these days, she continued with her exercises every morning, even when winter had been at its height the year past. Despite all the fears, it had proven short.

He often wondered if it wasn't her silent way of honoring the memories of both her instructor and father.

Leave it to her to get up before dawn on her name day.

Pushing himself up and running a hand through his hair as he yawned, he pulled on a shirt before padding out the back door to join her. Flopping down beside the dog, he watched her glide through her dance with practiced ease and a peaceful expression on her face.

She'd grown in the last three years. Not terribly taller and she kept her hair only as long as her shoulders, but in other ways. He was glad she no longer had to pose as a boy, because the effort would have been wasted on all except blind men. Her hips had rounded and her chest had filled out. Though she worked beside him in the forge all day, her muscles had remained lean rather than growing like his. He was still like a bull; she was still a wolf. Her face has lost some of its childhood roundness and she'd been left with high cheekbones and strong lines. He couldn't keep from staring at them every single time she glared over at him.

Her slim, comfortable black pants and blue shirt that actually fit her weren't helping him to stop staring.

Even all those years ago, as soon as he'd met her and realized she was a girl, she'd ignited a small little fire in his chest. It had burned tenderly as that of a friend for a long time. But now, something about her, about the way she looked at him and smiled at him and laughed with him every single day had stoked that flame to a roaring furnace that threatened to consume him more often than not.

It had become all he could do not to reach over, grab her face in his hands and kiss her senseless every time she rolled her eyes and called him a stupid bull. It was infinitely worse when she would answer his questions without him having to ask or corner him to demand to know what was wrong with _her_ stupid bull when he was having a bad day.

Even if they hadn't been threatened with it in a long time, there was no way in the seven hells he was ever letting the woman go again. She was stuck with him until death. He just…didn't want to tell her that things had changed for him. He didn't want to lose her because hers hadn't done the same.

Staring out into nothing and distracted by thoughts, he didn't notice her Water Dance had brought her over to him until her blunted sword was at his throat. Smiling, she noted wryly, "Dead bull."

Laughing, he reached up with his long arms, shoved her sword away and wrapped an arm around both her thighs. Pulling her down into his lap, her laughter echoed off the buildings. Glaring up at him and scrunching her nose, she set her sword on the ground when she complained, "Stupid."

"So are you, m'lady."

Her hard knuckles connected with his collar bone, but he absorbed the hit without flinching. Swinging her legs over one of his so she was sideways in his hold, she leaned her head against his shoulder as she looked at the sun rising in the east. "I dreamed about her last night, about Nymeria."

Though they all knew why she couldn't, Arya had always regretted being unable to search for her dire wolf. Sometimes she would dream of her, always rather happier afterward because it meant she was safe and alive. With all the strange things the kingdoms had been through in the last years—the winter, Daenerys Targeryan coming over the Narrow Sea with three dragons and a horde of Dathraki to end the war, take back her throne, and incinerate all the White Walkers above the wall, and the houses falling in line behind her for fear of receiving a mouthful of fire—he knew it made her heart settle to know the lost member of her pack was alive.

Though they had separate rooms, she always came and curled up beside him after she had one. Even if holding her in her sleep had become increasingly more difficult over the past months, Gendry never tried to send her away. Life was better when they were close, no matter what his balls might've been thinking.

"How is she?"

Arya smiled contentedly, "Happy. She's at the Wall with Jon and Ghost. She gets to run in the snow and play with her brother. And Jon will take care of her. He was always the one best with lost souls."

Though neither she nor her sister expressed any true regret over running away from their family, he knew she missed her bastard brother dearly. He wondered if knowing Nymeria was with him would ease some of that pain. She'd already given up so much—her blood family, her home, and her list for the sake of making her father proud of her for not living in the past—he grew inexplicably warm whenever she got something back in return.

Not really thinking about it, he pressed a kiss to her temple before leaning his against it.

A grin was on her face when she turned to look at him after a few minutes. Confusing him, there was an element of shyness hiding behind it, but she spoke before he could wonder about it too closely. "So, what did you get me for my name day?"

"Who says I got you anything?" In truth, he'd gotten her hair ribbons to make her angry and crafted a simple steel bracelet as her real present. Her eyes narrowed and he knew he was seconds away from being shoved back to the ground and wrestled with mercilessly until he told her. Though he loved how much they still laughed, how playful they were, Arya wrestling with him had come to pose a problem recently. Heading her off, he queried, "What does m'lady want for her name day?"

The shyness had been joined by a look of determination in the silence that followed. Staring at her mouth, he didn't notice her eyes flicking down to gaze at his until she whispered, "A kiss."

Unsure he'd heard her correctly, he stared stupidly with an open mouth, "A wha-?"

Surging upward with far less grace than she would've had she been fighting him, Arya planted her lips against his, bringing her hands up to tangle in his black hair and hold him to her.

She really hadn't a clue what she was doing, but…but she was more than willing to learn. She desperately hoped that he'd want to teach her or learn with her or whatever it took. She'd wanted to for months, a completely brilliant fire in her stomach making it damned near impossible to comfortably work next to his shirtless form every single day. She'd caught herself staring so often, she sometimes wondered how she actually got any work done.

She wasn't fourteen anymore and they'd been given those years she'd wished for. At first, she hadn't really understood, but…she'd fallen. Damn her stupid bull, she'd fallen hard.

Noticing that he had yet to respond—she must've been doing it wrong—she immediately made to pull away and apologize. His breath was still washing across her face and their noses were still touching when his hands came up to her hold head just as hers had and pulled her right back.

And then he was kissing her, _properly_ kissing her and it was glorious and impossibly warm and dizzying and she cursed herself for not having the courage to do it months ago.

With more strength than anyone but him ever gave her credit for, her hands ran down the sides of his neck to rest on his chest before she pushed him down onto his back. His fingers in her hair and her own determination not letting them separate, she came with him, shifting her legs so that they were on either side of him, her chest pressed against his, their stomachs quivering against one another and the unbearably hot part of her below that resting on his hips.

Their chests were both heaving when Gendry finally pulled away in need of more oxygen. A smug sense of satisfaction came over him when he saw Arya's eyes closed, a dazed look of excitement and elation on her features. Her fiery grey eyes blinked open after she caught her breath to see him grinning up at her.

Confused, she demanded with a growing smile of her own, "What?"

"Well, that was unladylike."

Affronted gasp escaping her mouth, she fixed him with a glare and began to shift in a move to rise, "Fine, I'll just leave then. You can just stay here all by yourself."

"Oh no you don't, m'lady."

Unable to keep the grin off her lips, Arya didn't put up any real fight when his strong arms crushed her back to his chest and his mouth found hers once more. She was filled with an overwhelming relief that she hadn't just scared him away forever that was forgotten once his tongue pressed against her lips and she let it slip into her mouth, suddenly a whole other depth of kissing opening up to her.

Responding with all the ferocity and passion she gave everything else in life that she loved, she sunk her fingers into his hair and settled herself more solidly against him, only pausing to whisper with a smirk, "Stupid bull."


End file.
